


Gifts are Meaningless to Me

by RegalRussianBlue



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: As in he raised him, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon is connecting the dots, Jon is going to enjoy what he can, M/M, Ned is Jon's father, Not Beta Read, because I was too afraid to ask, fight me, i don't know how to tag, reflecting on the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29174916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RegalRussianBlue/pseuds/RegalRussianBlue
Summary: Jon reflects on the gifts his father gave him over the years.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Ned Stark, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	Gifts are Meaningless to Me

The first name day Jon can remember in detail was when he turned eight. His name days had never been a celebration, there was never a feast like his siblings had. They blended in like every other day of the year back then. His father would call him into his solar after training and present him with something practical. A new pair of boots, a warm cloak, a good pen, or even a book. Nothing over the top or decorative like his siblings got, that was fine. Jon liked it that way, it made him feel grown up.

He snorts thinking of it now. 

His father had called him into his solar after training as usual. He had smiled brightly and presented him with a new cloak, but unlike the previous ones he had received this one was decorated. Winter roses were embroidered along the shoulders, coming to form a small bouquet as the pattern reached the clasps. 

The expression on his father's face had been strange. He was looking right at Jon, but he was not _seeing_ him. It had made him uncomfortable.

"Do you like it?" Ned had asked, frowning. Jon realized he had gone quiet while looking at the intricate needlework.

"I do father, thank you." The smile he received had been blinding.

Jon had worn the cloak once, to a feast when they were hosting the Umbers. The daggers in his back he had gotten from Lady Stark's stare that night had been enough for him to never wear it again. He offered it to Sansa the next day before they broke their fast, she had jumped in his arms and thanked him ten fold for it. She had always liked roses he thought briefly. 

He would never forget the way his father's face had dropped at seeing Sansa showing it off to their siblings as they came into the dining hall. Ned had tried to meet his eyes the whole morning, but Jon had kept them firmly on his plate. Ashamed at how he'd made his father feel like the gift he had had made for him was unwanted.

* * *

It was not until he turned eleven that anything similar had happened again. His father called him to his solar, but instead of handing him a gift he had led him down to the stables and passed him the reins of a strong brown mare. 

The horse was better than Robb's own black stallion. 

"What will you name her?" he had asked. That same look was on his face as when he had given Jon the cloak. He looked between his father and the brown mare.

"Hazel." he stated simply. His father had laughed softly and ruffled his black curls.

"Hazel it is then."

Jon had trouble mounting her at first, unused to a horse so large. He had never quite been able to catch up on his older brother's height, but he soon grew used to the process of hoisting himself up in a single lift. 

He insisted on taking care of her himself, much to the chagrin of the stable boys. This was his horse though, and something in her eyes made him feel at ease whenever he went down to brush out her mane or sneak her an extra apple. She had a temperament with the stable hands he had heard, but Hazel had only ever been mellow in his presence. 

Jon would sometimes catch his father leaned against the entrance of the stables, watching him with a small smile and that far off look. He pretended not to notice.

* * *

On the morning of his thirteenth name day his father had handed him a longbow with free folk runes carved deep into the wood. He had stared at it a long time, confused why his father had given him such an ornate weapon. He had always used the standard bows the rest of his father's men used, such decorative weapons were for lords. 

"I don't understand father." Ned had run a gentle hand along the runes.

"I may not be able to give you a family sword, but I can give you this." Jon's eyes had blown wide, understanding the significance at once. Robb had just started getting lessons on how he would one day handle Ice. 

"Thank you, I-," he paused, words evaded him," thank you." His father had smiled at him, that look on his face, but only partially, as though he was seeing Jon between the cracks.

"I gave Rodrick the arrows already, I want to see you train with it today." Jon had nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat and headed out to the training grounds.

Arya had snuck down to his room that night, sweets stashed under her arm and a smile on her face. He had let her in and they had laughed for hours sharing the sweets by the fire. Both of them laughing particularly hard over the look on Theon's face at seeing how easy Jon found the new bow compared to his old one.

He still remembers the first time he had hunted with the new bow, he ended up catching more game than Robb and Theon combined. 

The runes were for luck, his father had told him. He knew now it was much more complicated than that, but at the time he had looked at his bow in amazement at the idea that an object could hold such a thing in it. He wants to laugh at his younger self, he truly had known nothing.

* * *

He had never asked for something specific on his name day, it had always felt like a privilege only a lord was allowed, no matter how many times his father had told him it was not. But the night before he was to turn fourteen, he had gone to his father and asked to know about his mother as his gift.

His face had gone blank, but he had promised Jon he would think it over.

The next morning Jon woke up to a book about free folk runes on his desk accompanied with a note from his father apologizing for the short notice call from the Glovers. 

His father would not talk to him properly for weeks afterwards, at the time he thought he had offended the man by asking and vowed not to do it again. He knew now that what his father felt was guilt.

* * *

He was called to his father's solar after training on his fifteenth name day to find him looking somberly at the fire.

"Sit down, Jon." So, Jon had sat anxious and confused while his father stared past him to the fire. "I can't tell you about your mother Jon," he finally spoke," but I wish that I could." 

He stood and walked to the mantle, picking up a wooden box. He walked back and knelt before Jon, placing the box in his hands, indicating for him to open it, Jon did taking in a sharp breath at the sight of the cloak clasp, identical to the one Robb always wore. Direwolf sigil and all. He slammed the box shut and tried to push it back into his father's hands like it was burning him.

"Father I'm not-" but he could not finish the sentence, a familiar lump forming in his throat. Ned clasped Jon's hands tightly around the box.

"You are," he said firmly. "I would give you my name if I could, but my lady wife would never allow it." Jon swallowed harshly at the admission, he moved to speak, to say what, he did not know. His father pushed on though. "You are a Stark in every way that it counts Jon, if anyone deserves this sigil it's you." He stood and pulled Jon up to his feet with him, opening the box and gently replacing the Clasp that held Jon's cloak with the direwolf one. His eyes were wet and when he looked up to meet his father's gaze, he found no trace of that ever present far off look. He reached over to the desk and handed Jon a small plush wolf, patchworked and worn. 

He took it with shaking hands.

"This," his father's voice was choked," it was your mothers, she would want you to have it." He closed his eyes and felt the tears that had been pooling since his father had handed him the clasp fall. He wound his arms tightly around his father, before pulling back. 

"Thank you," he whispered. His father nodded and squeezed his shoulder.

"You are my son Jon," he made him meet his eyes," Don't forget that." He had nodded shakily and left, skipping lunch in favor of sitting on his bed and running his hands over the small wolf plush, trying to memorize all the little worn-out fibers. 

He wore the cloak clasp to dinner that night and even the Lady's harsh glares could not keep the smile from his face as his siblings all admired the new addition to his person, Theon even clapping him on the back, joking about not being allowed to call him Snow anymore.

He went to bed in his cloak that night, one hand clutched at the clasp and the other holding the patchwork wolf tightly to his side.

* * *

“Jon?”

He looks up from the stuffed wolf to find Tormund standing in the doorway to his chambers. Ghost trots across the room to greet the man and Jon grins. ‘Like master, like beast.' Robb used to say. Jon’s not sure he would consider himself a master or Ghost a beast, but the sentiment is the same.

“Hey,” he replies, voice soft and scratchy. Tormund stops from where he runs his hand along the wolf’s flank to walk across the room to the bed Jon sits on. He stops to plant a chaste kiss on his lips before settling down next to him. It makes the brunette grin.

“What’s that?” the ginger asks, pointing to Jon’s hands. He looks a little confused and it takes a few seconds for Jon to register they probably don’t have things like this up in the real North. A result of the nomadic lifestyle, he thinks.

He looks back at the beady eyes of the small wolf, “It’s a toy,” he pauses to clear his throat from the emotion building there and Tormund’s hand settles gently on his thigh. “It belonged to my mother, not that I ever knew who she was of course, but now…” he trails off, unsure of what he wants to say. Learning about who his mother was had thrown him off balance. It was a secret that threatened to destroy him, to destroy his people.

“He’s still your father.” The voice startles him, he had almost forgotten Tormund was there. “He raised you, he loved you, shouldn’t that be what matters?” His man had always been good at finding what bothered him without it being said. He meets Tormund’s eyes and cannot make himself look away. They are always so blue, so intense with whatever emotion the man is feeling.

Jon swallows and closes his eyes, the larger man’s hand comes to settle gently on the back of his neck and bring him forward until his head is being cradled against the man’s neck, his beard scratching at the side of Jon’s face.

“It should,” he finally replies, “but we’re not in the North anymore, if she ever found out… my people, your people we are all- “his breath catches in a sob and Tormund wraps an arm around his waist and brings him forward until he is fully nestled up against his husband’s chest. Tormund threads his fingers through the loose hair at the back of Jon’s neck and he brings his hands up to burry in the ginger’s furs.

“So she won’t know.” He says it like it is simple, like he can just not tell her. Maybe he does think that, but Jon _knows_ that he owes her the truth. They are family, and though he may shudder at the thought, he owes her that by honor. But then Tormund is pulling him back until they are both settled on their sides.

“Look at me Jon,” he pulls back from where he is still curled into Tormund’s shoulder. He meets his eyes, and they are like a blue fire. “You don’t owe her anything, none of that stupid Southern honor shit, you hear me?” Jon swallows and nods slowly. Tormund’s eyes feel like they burn into his soul as if searching for the truth.

“Ok,” he says. His husband still looks uncertain, but just pulls him into his side again.

“You should rest, another long day of preparations tomorrow.”

“Then I suppose we should undress.”

“Aye, we should.”

They undress quickly, clothes laying in a mess on the floor, before they crawl back into bed. He curls tightly into Tormund’s side and grins as his man buries his nose in his dark curls.

* * *

When he wakes up Tormund is sitting up, eyebrows furrowed as he inspects the patchwork wolf Jon had shown him last night. Jon’s immediate reaction is to panic, he had never let anyone touch the wolf since his father had given it to him. He wants to grab the wolf and pull it to his side, but then Tormund notices he is awake and leans down to press a gentle kiss to his lips and the tension leaves him. This was Tormund, his husband, he would never hurt something that Jon cared about.

“Morning,” he chuckles as they pull apart. He sits up to lean against his man’s side and the wolf gets handed back to him. He runs his thumbs over the ears with a smile. “Maybe I should have known who my mother was sooner.”

Tormund hums and Jon pushes on, “He, my father, would give me these gifts sometimes,” he rolls the wolf around in his hands, “and he would have this look in his eyes like he was seeing someone else.

“He’d have the same look sometimes when I shot an arrow particularly well or when he would see me tending to my horse. It wasn’t there as much when I got older, like he was finally looking at me and _seeing_ me, but when I think about it now…” he drops his hands to his lap and Tormund’s arm around him tightens for a moment, encouraging him to continue. “Knowing who my mother was, it all makes sense. All those gifts, that look, every time it was related to something my mother loved doing or a gift she would have liked. All the stories about her I heard, I was never able to put it together until now, but he would be looking at me and seeing his sister.”

“Fucked up way to treat your kid.” It startles a laugh out of Jon, and he shakes his head.

“Maybe,” he chuckles, but his voice softens as he says,” but it only happened sometimes and when I got older it stopped, I was just his son.” Tormund hums again and Jon looks up from his lap to find the ginger staring at him.

“You southerners have weird views.”

“Aye, we do.” Jon cannot help but smile.

They dress and leave to grab food before the day starts. Tormund grins at him from across the table the entire time and Jon smiles so brightly his face feels like it might split.

Sansa rolls her eyes at them. “Could you be any more obvious,” but she is smiling as she says it.

For the first time since learning his true parentage Jon feels relaxed, he smiles softly. There is a lot to come in the near future, but he deems to enjoy every down moment like this that he can get with his family at his side. He looks across the table at Tormund, beside him to Sansa, and to the doorway where Arya and Bran are coming in. His real family.


End file.
